


Heavy Is the Crown You Wear

by Arumattie



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 19:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10287251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arumattie/pseuds/Arumattie
Summary: This was not the ruler that Clarus was used to seeing: Regis had borne the mantle of king so well for so long that there were days that most forgot that he was still a man, made of flesh and blood and all the faults contained therein.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of feel like this is coming out of left field for me, since I don't talk about this ship much, but hey! Of the assortment of WIPs I've got on my hard drive, this is the one that actually got finished, so I really can't complain. (Not that I would complain about more Clarus/Regis in my life anyway.)
> 
> This fic is based off of the very end of the Omen trailer and some stuff in the Parting Ways drama CD/novella. It does, however, contain spoilers for the very end of the game, so watch out for that if you haven't finished the main storyline yet. Enjoy!

Clarus had known Regis for decades. He knew his moods, his personality quirks, and how to read the subtle shifts in his temper; he knew when his king was content, when he was angry, and when anguish tore at his heart. Regis had long forsaken the freedom to openly express his feelings, but Clarus could still see the emotions playing out behind his weary gaze. 

For the entirety of the day, the king had been agitated--a slight tick to his brow, the faintest twist to his lips, and an unsettled aura of magic held barely in check. Regis sat through a full morning of meetings and most of the ones scheduled for the afternoon before excusing himself with barely a word. He swept out of the room before Clarus could inquire as to what was the matter, but he gave him a look that said he'd have his answer later.

Clarus proceeded to helm the remainder of the meetings in his king’s place, and by the time he’d left the council’s chambers, he had a crick in his neck and a mild headache growing behind his brow. In an effort to relax and forget a day of tedium, he joined up with the Crownsguard for a spot of training, trading blows with his fellows until the sun sank below the horizon.

And still, Regis did not call for him.

Dinner was a brief and quiet affair at the Amicitia manor, and he bid both son and daughter good night before returning to the Citadel. On most occasions, he was content to remain at home once he’d managed to _leave_ the palace, but tonight, Clarus could not help but want to be closer to his king—so, to his private quarters at the Citadel he went. He trusted the look Regis had given him: if he was not called upon tonight, then, for sure, he’d speak to his king once the morning came.

He had not, however, expected the summons to come at three-forty in the morning: a simple text message that read, “My chambers. Now.”

Deeply worried, he hurried over, shirt untucked and rumpled from the day. He knocked urgently on the king’s door when he arrived; Regis was usually so considerate, so to be called upon at this hour only set off alarm bells in Clarus’ head. Had the king fallen ill? Had he been injured again? The Six knew how fragile his health had gotten as the years dragged on, and Clarus was about to let himself into the apartment, propriety be damned, when, at last, the door opened. 

Regis stood before him, still fully dressed and with a wild look in his eyes, but he said nothing as he moved to the side to allow Clarus in. The king's chambers were dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, and by its pale, silvery light, Clarus made out the shape of a bottle of liquor on the table in the living area, a half empty tumbler beside it. "Regis," he started, "What—”

He was cut off by the hard press of Regis’ lips against his own, fingers closing around his shirt and dragging him closer. Clarus inhaled sharply and gingerly placed his hands upon his king’s shoulders, carefully breaking the kiss. “Regis,” he said again, his voice hushed and his gaze searching. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Later, Clarus.” This was not the ruler that Clarus was used to seeing: Regis had borne the mantle of king so well for so long that there were days that most forgot that he was still a man, made of flesh and blood and all the faults contained therein. No, this… this was a man on the cusp of being broken. “A moment’s reprieve is all that I ask.”

He could count on one hand the number of times Regis had approached him for this sort of comfort, for this sort of companionship, and each time, Regis had been on the verge of shattering into a million pieces. Clarus could not afford to lose his king this way— _Lucis_ could not afford to lose its king this way, so he acquiesced as he had all those other times, giving what he could freely and willingly. It pained him that there was not more that he could do, that all he could provide was a brief distraction. “Certainly.”

That was all it took for Regis to step into his space once more, hands fisted in his collar. They kissed, teeth clacking and biting, as fingers fumbled with buttons and fastenings, zippers and ties; a trail of discarded clothing followed them to the bed. Almost as an afterthought, Regis’ crown was plucked from his hair and tossed carelessly onto the bedside table.

They had no use for that weight here.

Clarus tumbled onto the over-large bed after Regis, warm hands skating over a too-thin frame; his fingers traced over old scars as he thought of the matching ones on his own body, of the times when he hadn’t been quite quick enough to protect his prince and king. He murmured apologies against his king’s skin, pressed his lips to every old wound to beg forgiveness—and Regis gave it with each gasp that escaped his lips, every drag of his fingernails across Clarus’ broad back.

The word _more_ became a litany whispered against his ear, breath curling hot against his skin, and who was he to deny such a demand from his king? Clarus pressed a kiss against the corner of Regis’ mouth before retreating to fetch the vial of massage oil he kept at the bedside, dripping the liquid over his fingers as he returned. Regis hummed at the first gentle press against his entrance—a sound that turned into a low growl when Clarus did not move quickly enough for his liking.

But _this_ was one of the few times he would not be moved, and Clarus soothed the temper of his king with open-mouthed kisses to overheated skin and an oil-slick hand around his cock.

Little by little, he stretched Regis open, earning him more than a few choice words of reprimand and assurances that he was _fine_ , but as Clarus finally rolled on a condom and sank into that velvety heat, the king went silent, all the air pressed out of his lungs. Poised above him, Clarus panted, dizzy with the sensation of being united with Regis once more; it had been _so, so long_. One hand clutched at a sharp hipbone with enough pressure to bruise, while the other buried itself in the soft bedding at his side.

A flush painted Regis’ skin down to his chest as Clarus began to rock into his body with slow, measured movements, and the king demanded more. So, Clarus acquiesced, adjusting his hold on Regis’ body and increasing the power behind his thrusts until each forward motion had Regis shifting upwards on the bed. Oh, he worried—he worried that this would be too much for the king’s ailing health, but Regis wanted— _begged_ —for everything that Clarus could give to him.

The air filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, of groans of pleasure and grunts of effort, before climaxing into a shout of pleasure as Regis hit his peak. Clarus hissed as he felt Regis clamp down around him and only managed a few more thrusts before spilling as well, barely catching himself on trembling arms as he finished.

Relaxed at long last, Regis went boneless beneath him, the lines in his face a little softer and the set of his jaw a little gentler. Clarus ran a thumb over his cheekbone before withdrawing, pressing an apologetic kiss to Regis’ brow. He disappeared for a moment to dispose of the condom and retrieve a warm washcloth with which to clean up with; the king’s touch lingered for a moment against his arm as he pulled away, as if he did not want this moment to end.

Regis was still resting quietly on his back as Clarus returned from the bathroom, but he could tell that worry was already beginning to cloud the king’s thoughts once more: the crease in his brow was returning, as was the slight downward turn of his lips. Whatever was on his mind was clearly no small matter, and it would seem that simple physical comforts would not be able to distract him. Clarus sat back down on the bed, the towel in one hand as the other moved to slide possessively down Regis’ side.

“What troubles you?”

"The Crystal spoke to me today," the king said, taking the proffered cloth. He wiped himself down with little fanfare before tossing the washcloth aside and letting out a long-suffering sigh. Clarus felt his anger rise, his post-orgasmic euphoria fading away all too quickly. 

To the people of Lucis, the Crystal was a symbol of power and prosperity; it enabled the might of the Lucis Caelum line and granted Insomnia protection from harm. Clarus, however, knew better than that: he knew at what cost the Crystal's generosity came. Day after day, year after year, he had watched his prince, his king—his friend, his lover—grow weaker and weaker to support the damn thing’s insatiable appetite. 

Lucian royalty were not blessed by the Crystal: they were cursed. 

"I should have known it was calling to you, given your behavior today." The off-kilter feel of Regis’ magic earlier on should have been a giveaway sign to him, and the thought twisted the smile upon his lips. "You seemed out of sorts."

"It beckons, and I come, like a dog to its master." There was a bitter edge to Regis' voice—far more hostile than he normally was when he spoke of the Crystal. Clearly, what news he’d been given today was worse than usual. "The day of prophecy will soon be upon us, my friend," he continued, voice clipped. "Its hunger is on the verge of being satiated: it requires the life of one more king."

Clarus stared down at Regis, his hand pausing where it had been idly stroking his thigh. The prophecy spoke of the True King arising with the full force of the Crystal’s power behind him, but it also made mention that this savior would have to give his life in order to purge the Accursed from the world. For generations, the Crystal had been draining the line of Lucian royalty to gather its strength, and Regis would be its last victim.

Which could only mean one thing: "Noctis—"

"Yes."

He thought of the boy with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes; he thought of the prince who had already suffered so much and of the father who loved his son with every fiber of his being. Clarus closed his eyes and shook his head, suddenly all too aware of why his king had been so upset: Noctis was to be raised for slaughter and nothing more. "You are certain of this, Regis?"

“I have no reason to believe this a trick.”

Wincing slightly, Regis carefully rolled into a seated position before grabbing the vial of massage oil off of the sheets. Clarus plucked it out of his fingers with a frown, coated his hands, and silently went to work on the other’s right knee; he’d pushed his king too hard, even if Regis refused to say a word about it. He worked at the offending joint in silence, focusing on the press of his fingers and the way Regis’ knee slowly began to loosen under his care.

He had always known the Lucis Caelum family history to be fraught with heartbreak, but even then, this seemed to be taking things too far: it was one thing to know that your own time in the realm of the living would be cut short, but to know that your son was destined to be nothing more than a sacrificial lamb? Clarus thought that to be far crueler. What sort of parent would wish that upon their child?

"Years ago, Noctis told me of a promise he had made to Princess Lunafreya: that he would become the Chosen King." Regis chuckled darkly. "I had thought nothing of it then. After all, how many times have those vows been shared between a monarch of Lucis and the Oracle of Tenebrae?”

“Enough times to discount the words exchanged between them.”

“Precisely, and yet, here we are.”

“Will you tell him?”

The words hung in the air as Regis floundered, mouth opening and then closing; the king inhaled slowly and released the breath with a rattling sigh. Withdrawing his hands, Clarus immediately felt guilty for asking, but he needed to know. His family was bound to the king’s, and one day, his son would walk alongside this doomed child to fulfill his destiny.

Regis’ choice would affect his own to speak to Gladiolus on the matter, would affect the trust that father and son shared.

“Would you think me a fool if I were to hide this from him? To keep it from him until the eve of disaster?” The king spoke in a whisper, and as if on instinct, he reached for Clarus, their fingers brushing and then lacing together. “As his father, I would protect him from further sorrow.”

“And as his king?”

Regis had no words for him, but that fragile look in his eyes had returned, the one that had shown so brightly when Clarus had first come into the room. He reached for his king and pulled him close to brush their lips together—a chaste kiss that he didn’t allow Regis to deepen. There was no easing the pain of this decision: the kingdom and the boy would both suffer in the end.

“He may come to hate you for it, and Lucis will think you a traitorous king.”

“My legacy will not matter when the Accursed is banished,” the king said with a sense of finality. “And I… I hope that Noctis will find it in his heart to forgive me one day.”

“He will come to understand,” he said, thinking of both Noctis and Gladiolus, and while the words were spoken with the conviction needed to persuade the king, Clarus held doubt in his heart. He squeezed the hand held in his own, giving Regis all the reassurance he wanted them both to feel.

Outside, dawn broke and chased the night away.

“He will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
